Burning Books

by Sharon Gerlach

  “You’re going to go home and call this detective—Cess’s father, you said? And you’re going to read the rest of the books.” He paused. “Molly, when I was watching her before we actually met, I used to see her writing in notebooks all the time. Since I’ve been here . . . well, I haven’t found any notebooks. No trace of diaries at all. So if those books are made from Cecily’s diaries, you need to read them so we all know what happened to her.”

  Molly whispered, “I think she was kidnapped and tortured.”

  He put a hand over his mouth again, suddenly looking pale and ill. “Go home and read. And call that cop. And you probably want to stay away from Cary until he’s proven innocent.”

  If he was proven innocent. “What are you going to do?”

  He smiled without humor. “Absolutely nothing, Molly. Sit here and look at old photographs and talk to a woman who lives entirely in my head and wait for a visit from that cop friend of yours. You probably want to stay away from me, too.”

  After that, he would talk no more about it, despite Molly’s persistent questions. Finally, he stood and ushered her out the door. Once on the front porch, the door closed in her face. She expected to hear the all-too-familiar sounds of one of his rages: objects thudding against walls, glass breaking, obscene screaming. But all was quiet. Molly drifted back to her car in a fog of numb disbelief. Her brother really was crazy. Since that fear had been realized, did that mean her fears about Cary would also be realized? Her stomach rolled again, but there was nothing to throw up this time. She popped a stick of peppermint gum into her mouth to help ward off the nausea and got into the car.

  Crazy was too generic a word for what ailed Magnus. He missed his lover so he talked to her in his head, no different from many a grieving man who’d lost his life companion. It was nothing more than a coping mechanism. The real question remained: what role—if any—did her brother play in Cecily Welch’s disappearance? What role had Cary played? All the markers for Cary’s innocence were also camouflage used by notorious serial killers, such as Robert Yates in Spokane and Dennis Rader—the BTK Killer—in Witchita. Conveniently, Cecily was not around to testify to any other markers—strange behavior, unknown whereabouts, controlling habits.

  That wasn’t precisely true. In one of the books, Cecily had admitted that even her own father had refused to believe she was being stalked. She had testified to markers, and no one had believed her.

  Annis lay in wait when Molly walked in, armed with chicken broth, soda crackers, lemon-lime soda, and a lecture. She allowed herself to be pressured into eating. At least if she threw up again, it wouldn’t be just dry heaves. She popped some aspirin to ward off a looming headache and nibbled on soda crackers until Annis left, secretly admitting to herself only after the housekeeper was gone that she did feel better having something in her stomach. Then she laid out the book and the photographs and called the cell-phone number Harvey Cohen had scribbled on the back of his business card. Expecting his voice mail, her mind blanked when he answered the call.

  “Hello? Hello?” he repeated after his initial greeting, and Molly found her voice.

  “Detective Cohen, it’s Molly McKinley. Are you alone?”

  “My wife and I just arrived home. We missed you at dinner tonight. I hope you’re feeling better?”

  “A little. I need a couple hours of your time. I have something to show you.” She could feel his reluctance over the line and wondered when had been the last time he’d had an evening with his family uninterrupted by work. “I know it’s getting late, and ordinarily I wouldn’t bother you with this outside office hours, but it’s about your daughter. About Cecily.”

  Cautiously, he said, “I don’t believe I told you her full name. She never used it.”

  “Cary didn’t tell me, either. That’s part of what I need to talk to you about.”

  “And something to show me, you said.”

  “Please.” Molly held a hand to her eyes as the headache pulsed. “Can you come? I’m at home.”

  “I recall the address. I’m on my way.”

  She started a pot of coffee while she waited and had just brought a coffee tray to the sitting room when he rang the bell. He waited while she hung his coat, looking stern and serious. She had thought the first time she met him that he looked like a man who would tolerate no bullshit. Now he looked like a man who hoped for something concrete to help find his daughter but instead expected some of that bullshit.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said when they were seated in the sitting room. She poured him coffee without asking if he wanted any, and without preamble explained everything since she’d found the books. He didn’t interrupt except to occasionally ask for clarification, and to his credit, he managed to keep any skepticism out of his expression.

  “If this is a game, Miss McKinley—”

  “No game. I wish none of it were true.” She wrote the address of the cottage on the back of one of the photographs and handed the small stack to him. “That’s Lee, yes?”

  He studied to photos impassively, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Yes.”

  “The address I wrote on the back of one of those pictures is where my brother’s friend Cecily lives. Or, rather lived—he says he hasn’t seen her since the superstorm. He goes there to feel close to her when he misses her. I found these photographs there.”

  He laid the photographs on the table. “You’re asking me to believe that sometime during the missing year, my happily married daughter and son-in-law separated because she came to believe he’s a serial killer, and they both just happened to fall into affairs with members of the same family. And you’re getting all of this from some supposedly magical storybooks you found in a bookshop on a street that doesn’t exist—magical books created by a supposedly diabolical conglomerate who researches magic.”

  Her face flamed. “I know how it sounds. But please, let me read you this book, and I’ll ignite the magic, and you can see for yourself what happens then.”

  He held out his hand. “Let me see it first.”

  She handed it over. He examined the cover, then opened it and paged through, looking for tricks or devices. He stared down at the first page for a long time.

  “The words make no sense.”

  “I’m the only one who can read them. Magnus, Cary, Cary’s father—the words have no meaning for them, either.”

  Cohen snorted. “Cary’s dad—well. Raymond’s a nut short of a squirrel hoard.”

  Raymond, not Ed. “Could these diaries be his wife’s? Maybe the box of trophies was his. Cary said they bought the house from him. Is Cary’s mother . . .”

  “Alive and well and living peacefully far from Raymond. Somewhere in the San Juan Islands, I believe.” He gave her back the book and poured himself more coffee, leaning back in his chair, sad and resigned. “No, the story more fits Lee. Go ahead. Read the book to me.”

  Molly opened the book and read. Cohen’s expression tightened the farther she read. When she read Seventy-Six Gulch, he exclaimed, “Jesus!” and jumped up from his chair, sloshing coffee over his slacks and shoes and the carpet. Molly finished reading, set down the book, and went to get a towel. When she came back, he had the book again, trying to make sense of the words only Molly could read.

  “She was abducted and tortured—but she was found. So, where is she now?” The shock gave way to heartbreak as a thought occurred to him. “Oh. I see. We didn’t believe her about Cary. That’s why she’s not contacted us. She went into hiding, even from us.” He caressed the leather cover of the book as though it were a genie’s lamp that could magically produce his daughter.

  “There are more photographs at the cottage. As well as a jar of sea glass. Sand dollars. Five eelgrass shells. I don’t know about the Cinnamon Dolce latte cup, but the red silk ties are still on the bed. Magnus has confirmed it’s Cecily’s cottage, but he was as shocked as I was to learn Cecily is Cary’s wife.”

  “So this book is . . .”

  “I think i
t’s her statement to the police after she was found. That’s why the difference in narration; she’d been traumatized. No one believed her about Cary—even you, and then she’s been proven right about the danger. So after she gives her statement, she goes into hiding. With her mental issues, can you imagine how betrayed and alone she must have felt?”

  At length, he said roughly, “All of that would have happened in the missing year, Miss McKinley. She would remember none of it, just like us. So we’re back at the question: where is my daughter?”

  “Maybe her suspicions predate the memory wipe. Magnus remembers her, but he doesn’t remember what happened to her. Maybe she knew enough to stay in hiding.”

  “What do we do now? If he doesn’t know what happened to her, he’s another dead end.”

  She drew in a shaky breath. “I read this book. We watch it burn. And then you go to your office and search your database.”

  “You think it will—”

  “Cough up some of its secrets? Yes, I do.”

  “What about you? If that book unlocks more of the past, won’t they remember, too? You’re part of this. Both Magnus and Cary know you’re reading these books, and both of them know you think this is Cecily’s story. If either are involved in her abduction and torture, you’ll be a sitting duck here. We should stay together. You can go with me to the station and burn the book there.”

  “If it’s like the other books, it only reveals a little bit more to Magnus, usually in the form of nightmares. It reveals nothing to Cary.”

  “What about the people who made these? The Augury Group, you called them?”

  “I believe the Augury Group is indirectly involved on a much larger scale, but I haven’t quite figured out how. I don’t think they will know I’m unraveling the magic until I’ve unraveled it all, seeing as they haven’t come knocking at my door yet.”

  He looked deeply doubtful, so she tipped him another lopsided smile. “It will be fine. The house is locked up tight. I’ll be in the attic, seeing if I can finally get into one of my mother’s trunks. I have the key; it just wouldn’t unlock.” She held the book up like a trophy. “I bet it will after I read this. And if Magnus comes home, I can lock myself in the attic until you get here.”

  “Molly, it’s too dangerous.”

  “I need to know what’s in the trunk. The rest of that article I found about us is in there, I’m sure of it. It’s better if we’re both working on this at the same time.”

  “Then don’t burn the book until I’m at the station. That will buy us some time.”

  “You won’t really believe until you see it burn.”

  His gaze was steady. No blinking, no looking away. “I already believe you.” When she offered no further argument, he stood up. “I’ll text you when I reach the station.”

  “I’ll go up to the attic now and lock myself in.”

  He hesitated, then crossed the space between them and gave her a brief, awkward hug. “Be safe, Molly.”

  There was no safe haven anymore, Molly reflected after she let Harvey out and locked the door behind him. The Augury Group had made sure of that. Whatever their involvement or purpose, their magic had backed her into a corner.

  She gathered up her cell phone and the book, snagged the key ring from the kitchen, and made her way up to the attic, twisting the bolt knob to engage the lock. An old, galvanized-steel bucket would do for the burning; although the flames of the previous books had been heatless, she didn’t want to chance burning down the house around her.

  It seemed like an hour before Harvey texted her—an hour during which she questioned her sanity, berated her deductive reasoning, denied her conclusions. In the end, when the detective’s text flashed across her phone—I’m at the station. Any time you’re ready—she opened the book to the back cover and read her name aloud.

  ∞1∞

  The memory slammed into her like a meteor, at impossible velocity and with catastrophic devastation.

  “I’ll sign you into my class, but in the future, please make sure you’re on time, Miss McKinley.” With a rather austere expression, he scrawled his signature on the form and handed it back to her.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Welch. I was meeting with my guidance counselor.” He looked up at her, and her excuse faltered on her lips. His eyes were the kaleidoscope of an ocean reef: the green of kelp, the vibrant blue of the sky from underwater, splotches of ocher and rust shot through with striations of indigo and rich, earth brown. Coherent thought fled under their scrutiny.

  He let the moment stretch to the point of awkwardness, then invited with a slightly sardonic bite to his voice, “Please take a seat, Miss McKinley.”

  The only available seat was in the very front of the room, lined up exactly with his lectern. She slid into it, face burning, feeling every eye in the room boring into the back of her head.

  “Now that Miss McKinley has graced us with her presence, we were discussing your first paper. This will be an ethnographic research paper in which you will collect qualitative data through interviewing, observing . . .”

  The room spun. Molly wrapped her arms over her head, rocking on her knees, the onslaught of memories a physical assault, her mind skipping frantically from one moment in time to another as though it had thirsted for them and desperately needed to drink them in all at once.

  The fluorescent light over her table gave off a little flicker that made her head ache. She glanced around the library, but no one else seemed to care—or notice—the wavering light. She looked down at her book, laid her pencil to her notepad, and started taking notes. She didn’t have a head for this kind of subject, although her guidance counselor had assured her that it was a very captivating field. Obsessive notetaking seemed the only way she could pound the information into her brain before the final exam next week. It seemed to be working, at least on a small scale. As she wrote, her hand moved more from memory than from reading: Culture is the collective human beliefs t—

  A shadow fell over her. Warm breath caressed the back of her neck, and then he was leaning against her, reaching around her, his hand sliding over the back of hers. She jumped. The pencil dragged a thick, jagged line down half the page before his fingers laced themselves between hers and dislodged it.

  “Do I make you nervous, Molly?” he purred in her ear.

  Her heart slammed in her chest. Her whole body buzzed. Everywhere he touched her, her skin seemed so hot it should burst into flames.

  He planted his left hand on the table, effectively bracketing her between his arms. Molly’s eyes crawled over the library, panicked that someone would see them. But the blond-wood table was tucked into a secluded alcove, and no one paid any attention to them. Her eyes went back to his hands—the right one holding hers captive, fingers laced together like lovers; the left, long-fingered and strong, splayed on the table. An ink smudge on the last knuckle of his middle finger gave her eyes a safe spot to cling to, so that she wouldn’t look too long at his bare ring finger.

  A skillful seduction, like so many others in the history of modern higher education: a young woman who should know better, an older man who definitely knew better, her coy reaction to his bewitching advances fanning the erotic flames like no aphrodisiac known to mankind. He’d been so far out of her league that she hadn’t stood a chance once he turned his persuasive charm her way. She’d been his from the first moment he’d pinned her with those patchwork eyes—and he’d known it, then and now.

  On and on, the memories whirled in her head. The fateful first dinner, where his suave manner and two bottles of wine seduced her right into his bed. The next months, skating along the edge of a desire so sharp she feared it would cut right through her very soul. Making love on rainy summer nights, the breeze through the open window billowing the curtains and scenting the air with petrichor. Elegant dinners with his preternaturally well-behaved children. Aching to her very bones every second they were apart.

  Then the day she’d felt the first slice, the pain of doubt a
nd suspicion piercing as deep as she’d dreaded.

  “My husband is stalking me. I think he’s been in my house.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Cecily. Why would he bother? You’re divorcing. He’s seeing me; you’re seeing Magnus. Cary seems fine with that arrangement.”

  Cecily’s blue eyes held despondency. “So, you won’t believe me, either. My own father . . .” She choked on her words. “What will it take to convince you, Molly? I’ve known him since I was eight. Dated him since I was fifteen. I’ve lived with him daily since we graduated high school. I gave birth to his children. I know him, Molly. I know what he’s capable of.”

  “You’re the mother of his children. He would never hurt you.”

  Cecily’s tears spilled over her cheeks, glittering like diamonds. “You’ll see.” She turned away, then just as suddenly turned back, grasping Molly’s hands. “If something happens to me, if I disappear—please, Molly, will you look for me? You owe me that much, since you’re the one who led him right to me. You should have just stayed out of Magnus’s business. Will you look even if it means you find that Cary is responsible?”

  Had she agreed? Of course, grudgingly, through numb lips and a haze of contempt. She knew all about Cecily’s mental issues; Cary had talked to her at length about his wife and the rapid disintegration of their relationship once she had abruptly exited their home and refused to tell him where she was. Refused, even, to meet him anywhere to see their children because she was afraid he would follow her home.

  Cecily had let go of Molly’s hands slowly that day, sliding away millimeter by millimeter, and then she had turned and sped away, not looking back. Molly experienced a strong urge to call her back, invite her to coffee, listen to her fears, because shoved to the back of her mind were all the times she couldn’t reach Cary, all the times he had failed to be where he said he would be, all the too-plausible excuses he posed for his absences. Could Cecily be right? Was Cary stalking her, intending her harm?

  But she didn’t call out. She didn’t dial Cecily’s number on her phone and arrange to meet. She didn’t face the possibility—no, the probability—that Cary was playing some sort of mind game with his ex that could turn dangerous, because she didn’t want to admit he had the capacity for violence.